


Dear Darling

by TheGoodDoctor



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Angst, F/M, Letters, Romance, it's a sad one, nearly a songfic, poor babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 19:14:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3621129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoodDoctor/pseuds/TheGoodDoctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick's letters to the Sanatorium and to the lady he loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Darling

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by and title from Dear Darling by Olly Murs.
> 
> I made myself kinda sad.

~~ Sister Bernadette, ~~

~~How are you?~~

 

~~Sister Bernadette,~~

~~As your doctor, I am compelled to ask~~

 

Sister Bernadette,

How are you feeling? The Sanatorium “suggested” I speak to you personally when I telephoned, and the nuns are desperate to know. They promised to write, and the nurses too, so you shall have no end of letters.

Timothy sulks, pretending he doesn't miss you already. I suggested that he write too, but he insists that he has enough writing to do at school. He does want me to tell you to get better and come back soon. I think all of Poplar does.

Mrs Taylor gave birth; twins, both healthy girls. I know you followed the case, but there were no complications. Mr Taylor walks around with a blissful expression every hour of the day, so much so that he recently walked into a table and later tripped while entering the surgery. I told him to stop being so happy for the good of his health, though it was rather sweet - if more than a little ridiculous, as Sister Evangelina never ceased to remind him.

The treatments lined up for you really are the best. I read of them in the Lancet; they're quite revolutionary and the most effective we've ever

Sorry. Tim demanded an update on the letter and, apparently, you hear quite enough “doctor stuff” at the Sanatorium and I'm dull. I'm leaving it in, just in case. ~~I read about TB treatments every day for you.~~

With that, I shall end.

Doctor P. Turner.

 

Dear Sister Bernadette,

Please excuse my writing. I'm a doctor, I'm afraid it rather comes with the job.

Actually, that's not all. I don't wish to burden you, but it's been a long day. Mr Andrews from the grocers coughed up blood, the ambulance took twenty minutes and

I'm sorry. I am burdening you, and keep breaking off mid-sentence. I don't want you to worry, you need to rest. To recover, and come ~~home~~ back to Poplar. That's important, not my day  ~~or my shaking hands~~.

How are you feeling? The nuns say you don't complain, but that's not really the same as nothing to complain about. Two people asked after you today, although I'm not sure why they asked me. The nurses seem agitated; I think you may be a calming influence.

Timothy asks after you again, and repeats his message: get better and come back soon. I second it.

Doctor P. Turner.

 

Dear Sister Bernadette,

~~I miss you.~~

How are you today? All is well here. A few colds, but nothing dramatic.

I don't know why I write to you. I know so little about you, it's hard to tell if we have anything in common - aside from healthcare, and I don't want to talk shop.

~~I miss you.~~

Write back with anything. The view, the gossip, the doctors' and nurses' strange quirks. What your room is like, whether you miss Poplar, ~~whether you miss me~~.

I hope you recover soon. So many people want you back, it's hard to keep count.

Patrick Turner

 

Dear Sister Bernadette,

I miss you.

Nothing hurts like no you. Nothing hurts like you being so out of reach, so far away. I hate that you are ill and hurting and no-one who seems to know, truly know, will tell me how you are. I hate that I had to diagnose you, to tell you that you have a life-threatening disease, to touch you in a professional way when I only wished to hold you close and keep you safe from things I cannot keep you safe from. From things which I did not keep you safe from.

I'm so cold, and can't get warm. I hate to think of you in discomfort. Tell me they keep you warm, and safe. Tell me that you're better, that you're coming home. Tell me that you don't hate me.

Tell me that you don't write to me for some reason I can make positive.

Please, return to Poplar soon. I need to see you, to know that you are well. I would visit you, but I fear you will not receive me. That would hurt more even than the present situation.

I fear that I have ruined us, and that we shall never even be friends.

It's early in the morning as I write. I have the windows open, to hear the birdsong. The starlings call and swoop, making patterns in the sky like clouds and waterfalls. I would miss them in the country – they represent the people, to me. Close-knit and moving, always moving. Never still or quiet, every person represented. Adults and children, we all dive together. The rooftops are shining, golden in the dawn, as the smog lifts. The new day is hopeful and beautiful, and I wish you were here to see it. I wish you were here to see it with me.

Timothy misses you terribly. So do I.

I wish you the fastest recovery, and to be kind of my writing.

Patrick.

 

Dear darling,

I shan't send this. I need to write, to vent.

I love you.

I know I do, I love you dearly, deeply and tenderly. I find myself wishing you were nearby when a joke is made so that I could watch you laugh, or have our eyes meet in a silent joke to make you giggle. I want you to laugh everyday, to be happy, to be well. I want you to watch the dawn with me, to hold you at night, to kiss you awake. I want you to come downstairs with me, to complain of my cookery, to laugh with me. I want Tim to hug you and join in, to be domestic.

I want you to realise how much he loves you. I want you to realise how much we both love you.

I want to tell you of my day, and for you to tell me of yours. I want to do it easily, as if we always have. I want to share my cigarettes and hear you sing. I heard you once, while I waited for Sister Julienne. It was so beautiful, and I miss the sound. I want the house to be filled with the noise of a family, not the sounds of existence. I want you to be mother of my children.

I want you so terribly. I lie awake and try not to think of you, and I fail. I hate myself for it, you must understand. You're beautiful, inside and out. I know you are. I can't stop thinking about you.

You must hate me for this, hate the way I can't respect your choices. Hate the way I tell you these things, when you can't reciprocate. You must not. There is no way you would ever feel the way I do, yet I tell you anyway. Is that not cruel?

I cannot resist you.

Should the impossible happen, or even if it does not, these arms are yours to hold. Forever.

With all my heart,

Patrick.

 


End file.
